TITLE: Look What They've Done to My Song, Ma
SPOILER WARNING: None, really. A rumor from season 6, right at the end.
RATING: NC-17
CONTENT WARNING: Hmm. Sex. Yup. Some of that. Quite a bit of it, in fact.
CLASSIFICATION: SRH; MSR
SUMMARY: The songfic to end all songfics. Don't I just wish... ;)
Look What They've Done to My Song, Ma
OR
Fate Takes a Hand
by Brandon D. Ray
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
Julius Caesar, Act IV, Scene iii
by William Shakespeare
# # #
Happy bridegroom, Hesper brings
All desired and timely things.
All whom morning sends to roam,
Hesper loves to lead them home.
Home return who him behold,
Child to mother, sheep to fold,
Bird to nest from wandering wide:
Happy bridegroom, seek your bride.
Epithalamium
by A.E. Housman
# # #
Would you like the sex, or just a little head?
The Opening of Misty Beethoven
# # #
Philosophers will probably never settle any of the eternal questions, any of the
things which really matter: Predestination versus free will; the existence of
God and a higher purpose for humanity; why the Redskins can't seem to beat the
spread. But. There is no denying that, every once in awhile, Fate takes a
hand, and everything is thrown higgledy-piggledy.
And today is one such day. Follow along, and you will see.
# # #
November 21, 10:13 a.m.
A certain basement office in a certain well-known government building in a
certain city on a certain seacoast of a certain major country
Or was it October 13, 11:21 a.m.?
No matter. Onward.
Fox Mulder bent over his desk, trying to make sense of the expense report he was
working on. It was from the Case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra, which had been
only a couple years ago, but already the deadline for filing his travel
reimbursement claim was fast approaching, and he had promised Skinner he'd turn
everything in by the close of business today.
He was actually close to being finished. All he had left to do was to justify
the loss of two flashlights, another Sig Sauer, three boxes of ammo for same, a
crate of raw, unsliced zucchini, and the destruction of a thirty foot yacht
belonging to a United States Senator. It was the zucchini that he was really
struggling over; despite his legendary photographic memory, he couldn't for the
life of him remember why he'd bought them, or what he'd done with them.
Speaking of vegetables, Mulder's own personal zucchini was bulging in his pants
like a son of a bitch, an inescapable consequence of the presence of the petite,
perfectly proportioned red-head sitting across the room. Her natural pheromone
was bad enough; today she was obviously in heat. His trained investigator's
nose had detected this fact the moment she stepped off the elevator that
morning. It was all he could do to refrain from ripping her clothes off and
giving her a shagging she would never forget, right there on his desk.
<> he thought
wistfully. <>
At that moment, the song playing on the radio ended. It might have been
Metallica, or the Dead Kennedys, or Frank Sinatra. It might have been Devo, the
Bee Gees, or Sarah McLachlan. It might even have been Twisted Sister, Olivia
Newton-John, or C.W. McCall.
But what had been playing on the radio didn't matter. What mattered was that a
few moments before the D.J. had received a call on the request line, and was
about to play a certain song. This decision was of no great moment in the
course of human history. It would not topple governments, cause presidents to
die (whether anyone was watching or not), or even unleash a swarm of killer
bees.
But for two agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, reviled and despised
by their colleagues, hunted like rats by their enemies, trusting no one but each
other -- well, let's just say that hearing this particular song at this
particular moment would change their lives forever. These few words, written by
a man who was now dead, with worms and other nasty creepy-crawlies consuming his
remains, would in a matter of minutes wipe away five, no six, no five years of
restraint, discretion, and all that stuff. It would pierce their souls and
form, at last, an indissoluble bond, a bond which would never be dissolved.
In other words, Fate was about to take a hand.
# # #
Dana Scully bent over her desk, trying to make sense of the expense report she
was working on. It was from the Case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra, which had
been only a couple of years ago, but already the deadline etc. etc. etc. and so
on and so forth. You get the picture.
She wondered with amusement how Mulder was going to justify the crate of raw,
unsliced zucchini which she had surreptitiously charged to his Amex card. She
remembered in loving detail -- well, okay, in lustful detail -- just exactly
what she had done with those zucchini, but there was no way in the world she was
going to tell HIM about it, much less put it in writing on her own expense
report.
Speaking of vegetables, Mulder's own personal zucchini was in blatant evidence
this morning, and she kept casting covert glances at the bulge in his pants.
Her mouth watered at the thought of his manhood, proud, erect and unencumbered,
and slathered with melted butter. She had deliberately chosen not to bathe for
the last three days, so that he would be sure to smell her essence as soon as
she stepped off the elevator (it was, after all, his birthday, assuming that it
was October 13, 11:21 a.m., rather than November 21, 10:13 a.m.), and she was
pleased to see this graphic evidence that her strategy was bearing fruit. Or
bearing something. She squirmed in her chair, trying to find that small, hard
lump with which she liked to pleasure herself, as she imagined him ripping her
clothes off and giving her a shagging she would never forget, right there on his
desk.
<> she thought
wistfully. <>
And then Fate took a hand.
# # #
"That was The Village People with their classic hit, 'YMCA'," the D.J. said, his
voice booming through the tiny basement office. "In a moment we'll continue
with our 24 hour disco-swing-country marathon, but first we've had a little
request I'd like to play. This song in no way, shape or form fits in our
format, and the programming director has previously informed me that he will
eviscerate me and throw my remains to the animals at the National Zoo if I ever
play any Johnny Marks, but I just can't resist. Ha ha, just a joke, folks."
Mulder's head jerked up and he tore his eyes away from their close examination
of his partner's bosom -- it was, of course, perfectly proportioned -- and he
momentarily set aside the question of whether she was wearing a bra. He, of
course, owned every Johnny Marks song ever issued, along with a complete
collection of The Clash, Men at Work, Alice Cooper and Benny Goodman. Not to
mention the Grateful Dead. He wondered which of the Master's songs the D.J. was
about to play, and his eyes flew to the calendar. October 13. Or November 21.
Of course.
"You've heard of Dasher and Dancer, Prancer and Vixen --"
The words sent a jolt through Mulder's spine. Despite the few seconds of
warning, he wasn't prepared for this, and his eyes filled with tears. This
song...this song had been so special. He vividly remembered curling up in front
of the television with Samantha, fresh from their bath (they always bathed
together; they were that close), wrapped in a towel still warm from the dryer.
The dear little Styrofoam snowman, the sweet little reindeer, the soft, whuffly
Bumble which turned out to be so gentle and friendly once his rotten, necrotic
teeth had been pulled by the elf (even if the elf DIDN'T have a license to
practice, unlike Mulder's beloved partner, who could walk into any Emergency
Room in the world and instantly be accepted as a licensed professional, even
without written credentials).
Yes, Christmas used to be a special time in the Mulder household, despite the
fact of their Jewish heritage. Or perhaps because of it.
Before the dark time.
Before Samantha was taken.
He leaned back in his chair, tears streaming down his face, and hoped that
Scully would notice. Or maybe he hoped she wouldn't notice. Or maybe he hoped
both things. Anyway, he tried to concentrate on the words of the simple, lovely
song from his childhood. And suddenly it struck him:
This song was about his relationship with Scully. It was. It really was.
"Vixen." That had to be Scully, he reasoned. After all, if he was a Fox, then
she had to be a Vixen. His Vixen. Shaking his head sorrowfully, he closed his
eyes and listened to the words blasting from the speaker.
# # #
"Comet and Cupid, Donner and Blitzen --"
Scully sat bolt upright as the words penetrated her consciousness. She had
always hated this song, hated it with a passion, since it had been playing on
the radio that night when she was ten, that one Christmas Eve when she had tried
to sneak an extra helping of dessert and been caught in the act. She'd been
such a good little girl otherwise; she had never broken any rules, or even had
an impure thought, and the shame and humiliation of the spanking, of being sent
to her room for three days and being forced to subsist on bread, water and
brussels sprouts, had permanently scarred her. That particular experience also
went a long way towards explaining some of her more unusual fetishes, but that's
another story.
Ahab had been such a meanie, and for just an instant she took vindictive
pleasure in the knowledge that he was dead, and was at this moment being eaten
by worms and other creepy-crawlies.
But now she listened, really listened, for no apparent reason, for the first
time in 26 years, nine months and 19 days (or 26 years, ten months and 28 days,
depending).
<> she exclaimed internally. <>
Who could deny it? The symbolism was so clear: Cupid, the goddess of love, who
with her arrows had pierced Dana Scully's soul way back on March 6, 1992, when
she first walked into this office and realized that she had finally met her
soul-mate. And Donner -- that was German for "thunder", and there was no
denying the way that the blood thundered through her veins and her arteries (and
as a licensed physician, recognized to practice at a moment's notice, without
written credentials, anywhere in the world, Special Agent Dana Scully, M.D., was
well aware of the difference) every time she looked at her partner, or even
smelled the residue of his essence on those mornings when he came to work
without bothering to shower.
She leaned back in her chair, tears streaming down her face, and hoped that
Mulder would notice. Or maybe she hoped he wouldn't notice. Or maybe she hoped
both things. Anyway, she tried to concentrate on the words of this song from
her childhood. This song that she had always hated. With a passion.
# # #
"But do you recall the most famous reindeer of all --"
Of COURSE Mulder recalled -- he had an eidetic memory, after all, and he
remembered every word she'd ever spoken, every look she'd ever cast his way,
every time she'd ever screamed at him because he touched the small of her back
while she was having her period.
God, how he loved this woman.
# # #
"Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, had a very shiny nose!"
Scully's own nose was getting shiny, as tears welled up in her eyes and slid
down her cheeks, lubricating her face (go figger the evolutionary utility of
THAT). She sniffled slightly, and hoped that Mulder would think she just had a
cold. She was flatly determined that he would not pierce her reserve and
professionalism. She was dead set on being treated as an equal and a partner,
and not as a sidekick and a piece of ass.
<>
# # #
"And if you ever saw it, you would even say it glows!"
Mulder's own face was glowing; he just knew it. He could feel the flush on his
cheeks, although where the hell that flush was coming from when all the blood in
his body seemed to be pooled in his groin he had no idea. His zucchini was
throbbing with love and, more importantly, lust. If this song didn't end soon,
he was going to split a seam (again).
# # #
"All of the other reindeer used to laugh and call him names --"
Suddenly Scully felt sad. It was so unfair the way the other reindeer -- er,
agents -- treated him. So unfair. He was such a decent, warm, thoughtful human
being, with such a dynamite ass; how DARE they call him "Spooky"? She didn't
care about herself; she didn't care that they called her "Mrs. Spooky" and "Ice
Queen" and "Cootie Girl". It was his feelings that mattered, his self-esteem
that was on the line. She was willing to tolerate any indignity, any
humiliation, any hardship, if it would make him happy at last.
But she was damned if she was going to tell him the truth about how she felt.
# # #
"They never let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games!"
Mulder shook his head in sorrow as he realized the truth of that line. Poor
Scully. Poor, poor Scully. She could be having a normal life: A husband,
children, a house in the suburbs, maybe an adulterous affair once in awhile. If
it weren't for her association with him, that is. It was because of that
association that no one in the Bureau, no one in the government, no one in the
entire goddamned country would have anything to do with her. Men fled at her
approach (and not only on those days she forgot to bathe), because of the aura
of the bizarre which had rubbed off on her because of her work on the X-Files.
He would do anything if it could be undone, if she could have a happy, normal,
excruciatingly boring life, just marking time and never accomplishing anything
important or interesting until the day she died and her body was eaten by worms
and other creepy-crawlies.
He would do anything, that is, except give her up.
# # #
"Then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say --"
Scully's eyes popped open as she realized that it HAD been foggy that morning,
way back on March 6, 1992 (okay, so it wasn't Christmas Eve), when she had
driven to Washington to report to Section Chief Blevins and begin her career
with the X-Files unit and Fox Mulder. And Blevins even reminded her of Santa
Claus, just a little. All he would need would be a beard...and a pipe...some
dimples...a red suit with white fur trim...and a belly which shook when he
laughed like a bowl full of jelly. Other than those discrepancies, it was a
perfect match. (Of course, he had also been dead for almost a year, or a little
over a year, depending, and his body was no doubt being eaten by worms and other
creepy-crawlies, but that was a side issue. A rather pleasing side issue, all
things considered, but a side issue nonetheless.)
# # #
"'Rudolph with your nose so bright, won't you guide my sleigh tonight?'"
Mulder's eyes popped open as he realized, suddenly, that all these years Scully
had been his guide through the fog of conspiracy, heartache and despair.
Through the long search for the Truth, through the long search for Samantha,
Scully had always been there at his side, holding a flashlight the size of a
zucchini and illuminating the path before them. And he also realized, suddenly,
that her flashlight was really a symbol for something else, something more
intimate and special in their relationship. And he also ALSO realized,
suddenly, why her flashlight was always coated in delicious-smelling (and
tasting) residue on those occasions when he happened to pick it up.
# # #
"Then how the reindeer loved him, as they shouted out with glee --"
<> Scully thought with stunned surprise. <> And suddenly she felt an unquenchable urge, an overwhelming desire to
climb up on her desk and shout out with glee!
# # #
"'Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, you'll go down in history!'"
Mulder was torn from listening to the song -- the sweet, beautiful song -- by a
rustling on the other side of the room. It was his partner, his beloved, his
Scully, climbing up on her desk, shoving papers out of the way, and in the
process displaying more leg than seemed humanly possible in a woman as
vertically challenged as she was. As she finally stood onher desktop, her eyes
shining with unshed tears, or maybe she just had a cold, he noticed the large,
soggy spot on her chair, and his eyes widened as he realized that this was
incontrovertible evidence of her arousal, her desire, her blatant horniness.
And he suddenly realized, after five, no six, no five years of silence and
denial, that this was the moment of truth,or perhaps the Moment of Truth. He
rose to his feet, no longer caring that the evidence of his own lust swayed in
front of him like a telephone poll under a circus tent, crossed the room and
climbed up on her desk next to her. Scully was already shouting, screaming,
yelling at the top of her lungs, calling out things like, "Yippee! Hooray!
Hubba hubba!", and he quickly joined her in her vocalizations.
Then their eyes met, and they both realized that the moment was here, the
inevitable moment which neither of them had ever expected to come (so to speak).
In an instant, they closed the gap between them, their bodies colliding like an
offensive tackle taking out a blitzing linebacker. Mulder knew that he would
pay for this tomorrow, in the form of bruises, contusions and perhaps a few
broken ribs (but no STD's, since there were no such infections in the X-FIles
universe, and even if there were, neither Mulder nor Scully would ever be stupid
enough to expose themselves to such things), but he didn't care. All that
mattered now was his desire, her desire, their desire, and goddammit he was
going to prong her to within an inch of her life in the next few minutes, or
know the reason why!
For her own part, Scully was more than ready. In a few furious seconds she had
torn Mulder's clothes from his body, while he did the same for her. Buttons
flew everywhere, cloth ripped, and then they were finally together, skin to
skin, no more barriers, lost in a sea of flesh and desire. Scully flopped down
on her back like a landed fish, and Mulder sprawled on top of her an instant
later, like a noseguard making an open field tackle.
Scully felt his throbbing member brush against her thigh, and she immediately
realized what he wanted and spread her legs for him. He penetrated her in an
instant, gutting her like a trout (to continue with the landed fish metaphor),
spearing, probing, exploring, and generally discovering and claiming for his own
her most intimate nooks and crannies. Scully groaned with pleasure. "Filet me,
Mulder! Oh, please filet me!"
Mulder groaned with pleasure. She was so hot, so wet, her legs were spread so
wide, that he could hardly feel anything at all. At the same time, she was so
tight, and had such exquisite muscle control that she could probably blow
candles out on demand, and the way she was manipulating his love muscle with
her, um, self, was just too incredible to believe. He knew he wasn't going to
last very long, but he desperately wanted to please her, and so he focused all
his willpower on holding back.
Scully knew she wasn't going to last very long. She thought about mentioning to
her partner -- lover! -- that she had never had an orgasm in her life, at least
not with a man (and with damned few women), and that she never expected to, and
that he should just take his own pleasure, but the pressure building up inside
her, the tension building up, the glorious, wonderful feeling spreading outwards
from her labia majoris (for Special Agent Dana Scully, M.D., recognized to
practice at a moment's notice, without written credentials, anywhere in the
world, always insisted on using the correct medical terminology), gave her an
intuition that this statement might not be entirely true for very much longer.
Apparently all she had been missing was the right man to push her over the edge.
And then suddenly she was there! Oh, it was wonderful! It was glorious! It
was the 1812 Overture, it was the Washington Post March, it was Toccata and
Fugue in D Minor! She was soaring, she was bursting with joy, she wanted to
sing, she wanted to dance, she wanted to put a little seltzer down his pants
(although he wasn't wearing any). She wanted to scream her pleasure from the
rooftops. And she wanted to do it again.
She looked up into her partner's -- lover's! -- eyes, and saw the same
realization there. HE wanted to do it again, too! And she could tell from his
expression that he was reading HER eyes, and knew that SHE wanted to do it
again. And she knew that he knew that she wanted to do it again. And she knew
that he knew that she knew that he knew...well, you get the picture.
In a flash, they were on their feet, bare-assed naked, laughing with joy. In
another flash, they had gathered up their torn, discarded clothing, and were
dashing out the door and heading for their cars. Neither one of them said a
word; neither of them raised the question of "your place or mine". Now, for
most people this might have presented a problem, since given two independent
variables there is only a 50 percent probability that they would both choose the
same answer. But for Special Agent Fox Mulder and Special Agent Dana Scully,
M.D., licensed to practice medicine anywhere in the world at a moment's notice,
without written credentials, their own perfect, unspoken communication (which
really merited an X-File all its own), guaranteed that they would both arrive at
the same apartment, within seconds of each other, still bare-assed naked and
still laughing their silly heads off.
As the door to their office swung shut once again, a shadowy figure emerged from
a corner of the room, where he had stood unmoving and observant throughout the
entire spectacle. You probably think this shadowy figure is about to strike a
light to his Morely, but this isn't that sort of a story. Instead, the
fluorescent overhead light glints off his glasses, not to mention his bald head,
and Walter Skinner smiles an uncharacteristic smile as he sniffs appreciatively
at the aroma of sex in the room.
He had known these two had to get together eventually, whether Chris Carter
liked the idea or not, and this morning he hadn't been able to stand the UST any
longer. He had been the one who called in on the request line to Mulder and
Scully's favorite radio station. Somehow, he had intuited that hearing that
particular song at that particular time would finally push the two into each
other's arms (among other anatomical gyrations and complexities). He had then
slipped into their office when they weren't looking, and stood quietly in the
corner, watching his plan unfold. He had been delighted to see everything work
out just they way he had planned -- and he'd gotten his own rocks off, to boot.
Tucking his zucchini back in his pants, and turning off the lights, Walter
Skinner left the room and went back to his office, all the while thinking that
now he would have to give some thought on how to get Fowley and Spender
together.
Fini